


Matters of National Security

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 Fundraiser Auction, Arguing, BAMF John Watson, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Dating, Doctor John Watson, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, M/M, Original Character(s), Resolved Sexual Tension, Stupidity, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fanshaw would amuse John for a little while, like the girls always did, and then John would be distracted by Sherlock's brilliance, Sherlock's demands for his attention, Sherlock's mad energy, and Fanshaw would disappear.</i>
</p><p>John starts dating a male client of Sherlock's, and Sherlock can't figure out why he's so incensed about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matters of National Security

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruth0007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth0007/gifts).



> Many thanks to [mydwinter](http://mydwynter.tumblr.com) and [passeriform](http://passeriform.tumblr.com/) for beta reading, and to Ruth0007 for her donation to the AO3!

Sherlock let out a grunt as John slammed him bodily against the metal sliding door, pinning him there with the weight of his body and the sharp points of his elbow and hip.  

"Shut up a second," John said in a whisper, drawing his gun from the back of his trousers.  His hair was inches from Sherlock's mouth, more dishwater than blond in the low light of the warehouse and smelling of sweat and tea tree shampoo (washed yesterday, no time today).  Sherlock heard him flick the safety off, and then he could breathe again when John released him.  John sidestepped past Sherlock through the doorway, giving Sherlock a glance that clearly said, _Follow my lead, you danger-hunting madman._  Sherlock rolled his eyes, fully aware of the threat that might await them on the other side of the door, but fell in behind John all the same.

There was another noise that echoed in the emptiness of the warehouse, and John picked up his pace.

"That's not our guy," he said.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, "it’s David Fanshaw, our hostage.  John, we need to hurry; Simpson's going to get out the other side before the police arrive."

" _He’s_ David—" John started, and then they could see the hostage through the dingy window of the warehouse office.  He was sitting upright, and though his head was hanging limp he was moving a little.  John put his gun away with a noise of annoyance.  “Sherlock, if you want to run off and knock a kidnapper down with your ego, be my guest, but I’m going to go see if Fanshaw needs medical attention.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock said, following him across the floor to the door of the office.  “John, I need you with me.”

“You don’t,” John said, putting his shoulder to the door, “but that’s very sweet of you to say.”

Sherlock wavered (tempted, by John’s refusal, to hang about and be a nuisance) but his quarry would be out the back door by now and getting away.  He gave John a last look over his shoulder and headed after Simpson.

The kidnapper was not as far off as he’d predicted.  He was, in fact, coming back from the loo, doing up his belt and not watching where he was going.  Sherlock nearly collided with him in the narrow, fluorescent-lit corridor, but it was Sherlock who recovered from his surprise faster.  He pinned the man to the wall, twisted his arm behind his back, wrestled him to the floor, and zip-tied his wrists and ankles.  Sherlock left him there while he returned to the warehouse floor and John.

The police had bothered to show up by then, and Lestrade was the first one across the room to him.

“Simpson’s in there,” Sherlock said, pointing to where he’d left him.  “He’s not going anywhere.”  Lestrade swore and hurried off, and Sherlock shouted, “I didn’t kill him!” at his retreating back.

John was grinning at him from his crouch on the floor in the office. Fanshaw, who had indeed been tied to the chair, was now lying on the floor in the recovery position, with his knees bent and his left arm tucked up under his head.  His eyes were open, and when Sherlock walked in he tried to sit up. His face was bruised up and down one side, and he held his right arm close to his chest, protecting either his ribs or his elbow.  The knees of his trousers were torn and bloody.

“Ah, ah,” John said, keeping him down with gentle pressure on his shoulder.  “Not so fast, not with that nasty knock on the head.”

Fanshaw relaxed, and he looked up at Sherlock with limpid eyes.

“You must be Mister Holmes,” he said in a voice that was rough with relief.  “Thank you, thank you for finding me.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “It’s no trouble.  We would have been here sooner if your parents had bothered to mention the business with the trust fund.”

Fanshaw grimaced.  “It embarrasses them,” he said.  “They don’t talk to Uncle Walter much, if they can help it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “but you’ve formed quite a bond with him to have him set up a trust in your name, at your age.”

“It’s more like an extension of his will,” Fanshaw said.  “That’s the reason I can’t access it; he’s not dead yet.”

“Simpson didn’t understand that,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.  “It’s lucky that he kept you alive, then, what with your apparent refusal to help him.”

“Sherlock,” John said, as Fanshaw went a bit pale.  “Brain-mouth filter needs a little work.”

Sherlock sighed and buttoned up his coat.  “The paramedics will be here any moment,” he said, “I’ll just wait outside.”  John was going to be occupied with his altruism a little while longer; maybe he could get in a smoke before the ambulance arrived.

The ambulance had already turned up, Sherlock discovered as he elbowed his way out of the crowd of police officers.  Damn.  He sidestepped the gurney as it rattled by, propelled by three technicians, and leaned back against the brick wall of the building, tucking his chin into the collar of his coat.

Simpson was the first to be brought out.  His face was bloodied by Sherlock's right fist, and he was pushed directly into the squad car that sat waiting, doors open and lights flashing.  He managed to get a dirty look off at Sherlock before the door closed.  Sherlock stared back, impassive.  Simpson had been moderately clever, covering his tracks, obscuring his motive, but the trust fund had been the key.  Once Sherlock had pried that information out of Fanshaw’s reluctant, bigoted parents, finding Simpson had been a matter of following a rather plain trail of Walter Fanshaw’s associates.

David Fanshaw emerged at that moment, sitting up on the gurney with John at his side.  They were talking over the heads of the paramedics, and John was laughing at something Fanshaw had said just before the door had opened.

Sherlock watched them with narrowed eyes, something tightening inside his chest.  John’s eyes were crinkled in genuine amusement as they passed, and Fanshaw’s smile brightened an otherwise well-abused face.  John accompanied  him all the way to the back of the ambulance.  The paramedics lifted Fanshaw and the wheels of the gurney, and they paused for a moment to let Fanshaw shake John’s hand.  John glanced Sherlock’s way for a moment as he spoke, and Fanshaw looked over as well.  He raised a hand in farewell, and Sherlock inclined his head.

When the ambulance had gone, John came over to Sherlock, his boots crunching on the gravel.  His face was flushed more than it should have been, given the temperature, and Sherlock paused to give him a quick once-over, trying to account for this discrepancy.  John’s hands were jammed into his jacket pockets (nervous), but he was grinning (pleased with himself).  He licked his lips as he approached (chapped, or sexually aroused?  Sherlock was suddenly uncertain), and when he stopped in front of Sherlock he rocked up on his toes (restless).

“All right?” John said.  “Job well done, I’d say.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, still analysing.  “Was he flirting with you?”

“Ho--” John said, eyes going wide, and then he huffed a laugh and looked down at his feet.  “Yeah, a bit.”

“He had a head injury.”

“Cheers, thanks,” John said, kicking out at Sherlock’s shins but not quite reaching him.  “He’s a nice bloke; stood up rather well to getting the shit kicked out of him.”

“He gave you his number, and you accepted it,” Sherlock said, taking in the lump of John’s phone in his pocket (buttons facing out now, though they’d been against John’s thigh when they’d left Baker Street).  The tightness in his chest was getting hot, uncomfortably so, and Sherlock considered undoing his scarf.

John was blushing now.  “All right, yeah, I said I’d give him a ring, but not until he was out of hospital.”

“Well, obviously,” Sherlock said, baring his teeth.  What was wrong with him?  “Getting a leg over in a hospital bed is a little desperate, even for you.”  Not to mention incredibly unethical, but who was he to talk?

“Oi,” John said, pointing a finger at him, “just because you’ve got a frigid mistress of a job doesn’t mean I’ve got to abstain, especially when people are interested in _me._ ”

Sherlock was coming to the end of his comprehension of this conversation.  “You don’t even _date men,_ ” he said.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” John replied, turning for the street.

+++

The cab ride back to Baker Street was quiet, with John dozing with his head against the window and Sherlock typing madly on his phone.  He knew quite a bit about Fanshaw’s family affairs, but not a lot about Fanshaw himself.  Undoubtedly, this affinity he had formed with his uncle had to do with the uncle’s exclusion from the family dinner table, which in turn was almost certainly related to the uncle’s live-in partner Simon.  If David Fanshaw was comfortable enough with his sexuality to ask someone out immediately after being rescued from a hostage situation, his family was not going to be pleased.

Inconsequential; Sherlock didn’t care what the Fanshaws thought of their oldest son, who was well into his thirties and established as a lawyer in London.  He did, however, care very much what the rest of the people in Fanshaw's life thought of him.  Was he a good lawyer?  A pleasant fellow to be around?  A shallow lack-wit looking to seduce anyone he could get his hands on?  Sherlock scowled at his phone.  John shouldn't date someone like that, any more than he should date any of the myriad of boring girlfriends he'd had in the recent past.  Ridiculous.

How had Sherlock missed it?  All that business about 'I'm not gay,' and 'we're not a couple,' and John had been harbouring a desire for men behind Sherlock's back?  Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be furious for the deception or impressed by John's opacity.  He was always learning new things about John; that was one of the reasons he liked him so much.

The cab pulled up to Baker Street while Sherlock was in the middle of reading an article about Fanshaw's fondness for pro bono cases.  John woke up as soon as they came to a halt, and he dug a tenner out of his wallet as Sherlock climbed out of the car.  Sherlock unlocked the street door, and listened to John climbing the stairs behind him (tired, but not limping, thank God). 

Shucking his coat, Sherlock moved to the window and glared out at the street below.  Usually he felt good after a case; as John had said, it was a job well done.  They had identified the kidnapper in under eighteen hours, and saved a man's life in twenty-four.  

Granted, they hadn't slept since the night before last, which was the reason for John's inelegant slump on the sofa.  He had slung one arm over his face, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow, and the rise and fall of his chest showed him dangerously close to kipping right there.  He hated waking up on the sofa (it did bad things to his shoulder).

"John," he said, and watched John flinch at the volume of his voice.

"Jesus, what?" John groaned.

"Go to bed," Sherlock said, more gently.

John picked his head up off the back of the sofa, blinked blearily at Sherlock, and then stood up with a grunt.  He pulled off his coat and left it in a heap on the seat.

"Take your own advice, will you?" John said as he went by, rubbing a hand across his face.  Sherlock smiled to himself.  He should go lie down.  He could feel the adrenaline from the last leg of the case draining out of him, and his limbs were getting heavier.  The sofa didn't hurt Sherlock the way it did John, and it was looking rather appealing right now.  He could get in a few-hours nap before John would insist on supper.  Sherlock might even be ready to eat by then.

Sherlock pushed John's coat off the seat onto the floor and sat down.  Then, driven by a strange impulse that might have been guilt if he'd examined it closely, he picked up the coat and draped it over the sofa arm.  He could feel the warm spot where John had been sitting, just for a minute or two, and he lay down with his back in it.  The sofa smelled like John a bit— here, in the throw pillow especially.  Sherlock tucked it under his head, breathing in deeply.  Fanshaw would amuse John for a little while, like the girls always did, and then John would be distracted by Sherlock's brilliance, Sherlock's demands for his attention, Sherlock's mad energy, and Fanshaw would disappear.

Nothing to be worried about, Sherlock thought, closing his eyes.

+++

“I’m going out,” John said a few weeks later, pausing at the top of the stairs.  “Sherlock?”

“I heard you,” Sherlock said, and then sat up abruptly.  John was already wearing his jacket, and he had on his brown loafers and a clean button-down.  “You’re going on a date?”

“I told you this morning,” John said.  “David Fanshaw, from last month?”  He shook his head in consternation.  “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”  Sherlock watched a little smile grow on John’s face, and that hot, tight feeling he’d thought he’d gotten rid of came back full force, squeezing between his ribs.

He threw himself back down on the sofa with a huff and listened to the sounds of John rummaging for his keys and Oyster card.  After a moment, he called, "I might need you tonight!"

"No, you won't," John said, and thumped decisively down the stairs.  The silence he left in the wake of the door shutting was like the air inside a vacuum.

Sherlock got up from the sofa and went to rummage in the fridge.  He came out with a cup of yoghurt and an experiment on the growth rate of yeast, which he was careful not to confuse.  The yeast were coming along nicely— in that they were not doing much of anything, which was good— and the yogurt had strawberry at the bottom.

He texted John.   _Get blueberry next time. -SH_

No reply.  Not urgent enough.  That was fair, Sherlock thought, setting the phone down on the table beside his microscope.

A quick check of his email on John's laptop— which was closer at hand in the sitting room than his own in the bedroom— revealed two new potential cases, both of which would likely take fewer than two days, and one of which would require the use of John's firearm.  Since Sherlock was explicitly forbidden from touching the gun after the last incident, and since he intended to obey that rule only when it suited him, John's presence would naturally be required.

Sherlock replied to both emails and checked the time.

Ten past seven.

John had only been gone half an hour.  The rest of the night was going to be utterly interminable.

Unless.

Sherlock got up, tucked his phone in his pocket, and put on his coat.

+++

It wasn't easy to trace John and his date—Fanshaw, Sherlock reminded himself; it wasn't some nurse from the clinic or a single mum he'd met at the shops—to a dim sum restaurant in SoHo.  dim sum wasn't John's usual first date choice, so Sherlock had stuck his head in an Italian restaurant, a French bistro, and a horrible little pub, before remembering that John had wanted to try something new for take-away three weeks ago.  The take-away had been mediocre, as dim sum usually were when removed from their little trolleys by more than fifteen feet, but had promised greatness.

Now, Sherlock had to decide whether to march in and remove John from the table with a tremendous scene, or slink in and steal him away with his own subtle brand of coercion.  John always sat with his back to the window when they went out, so Sherlock wouldn't be noticed until he was at table-side.  That was going to work to his advantage: John would be more likely to react as if the situation were an emergency if he were surprised.

Sherlock stepped into the dim sum restaurant and indicated quietly that he was joining a friend.  The hostess let him pass, and Sherlock looked around for the back of John's— _oh shit._

John was glaring daggers at him across the room, a dumpling speared on his fork.

Sherlock corrected the hitch in his stride and finished crossing to the table.  It was stacked with half a dozen little silver dishes already, and by the smears on their plates Sherlock could tell they'd been sharing pretty equally.

"Mr Holmes!" Fanshaw cried, starting out of his chair to shake Sherlock's hand.  "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Yes," John said through gritted teeth, "what a surprise."

Sherlock smiled and said, "A pleasure to see you looking so well."

John looked scandalised.

Fanshaw just grinned.  "Cheers.  I feel fantastic, all things considered.  I don't need to be told it could have been a lot worse."

"I'm glad to hear it," Sherlock said.  "Listen, I'm terribly sorry—"  John appeared even more outraged than he had before, and it looked like it was going to give him a stroke— "but something's come up and I need to drag John away."

"Oh!" Fanshaw said, looking with quickly-masked disappointment at John and the table between them.  "I— well, of course, if you must."

"I’m afraid I must."

John said, "Sherlock—" but Sherlock pulled a fifty pound note out of his wallet and dropped it on the table.

"I hope that covers it.  Come along, John."

At first, Sherlock almost doubted that John would follow him, but he kept walking despite the concern.  By the time he'd reached the door, John was there, muttering under his breath and shoving Sherlock out into the street.

"What the bloody hell was that, Sherlock?" he demanded, as soon as they were on the pavement.

"I need your assistance," Sherlock said, waving down a cab.  "It's imperative that you come with me now."

"You're a damn nuisance," said John, but he climbed in all the same.

+++

The case was a minor matter of breaking and entering with nothing taken, which the police had waved off as an overreaction by the homeowner.  Sherlock, however, had noticed a rash of these types of B&Es lately, all along the Picadilly line.  It wouldn't have struck him if there hadn't been two in a row in neighbourhoods less than a block from the same station, and the rest of them fell into place.  There had been eight already and this, the ninth, was the first one that had come directly to him.

Sherlock only needed a quick look around the house to confirm his suspicions, and then he dragged John off to peer into the windows of the other houses that had been targeted.  Even with half-shuttered views of their living rooms, the pattern became clearer and clearer, until he had a complete case for John to text to Lestrade.

When they reached Baker Street again, it was a quarter to ten.  Sherlock shed his coat with a sigh of relief at a job well done, but when he turned to John for confirmation of that feeling, John's face was stony.

"You didn't need me for that," John said, hanging up his jacket (frustrated).

"I did," Sherlock protested.  Wasn't it obvious?  John pointed out all the right things, drew Sherlock's attention where it might not go, acted as a sounding board for all of his deductions as they came to him.  For two and a half hours he'd been doing just that, and Sherlock's mind had whirred along at a very pleasurable rate.

"No, Sherlock," John said, "you didn't.  You can play Peeping Tom on your own, and you certainly don't need to interrupt my personal time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Oh, come on, you were bored already."

"I wasn't bored.  You'd have been bored.  We made small talk for twenty minutes about the weather, and we didn't once talk about his kidnapping."

"Dull," Sherlock declared, and flopped down on the sofa.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John said, and shut the sitting room door rather harder than necessary.

+++

A week later, John went out with Fanshaw again.  He wore a crisp button-down shirt tucked into a pair of dark jeans, and he gave Sherlock a look as he left that communicated very clearly: _if you so much as text me the slightest observation or complaint during this date, I will come home and see to it that you never text again._

Sherlock believed him.

He went to Bart's, imposed upon Molly's kindness, and made a mess of a cadaver for a few hours to keep himself occupied and off his phone.  The signal really was rubbish that deep into the building, anyway, so he wasn't half-listening for his text alert noise.

It was after midnight when he finally pulled off his gloves and left, and he ignored the little flare of delight at the sight of a missed notification.  It was a message from John: _Have you gone out?_

Trust John to convey concern and interest in the dullest observation.  The message had a timestamp of half an hour earlier, so Sherlock wrote back, more out of certainty of a response than concern for John's sleeping habits.

_Hit and run victim, dead before impact.  Still have to determine whether driver implicated  
or not.  - SH_

He got into a cab, and was halfway home when John replied:

_Charming.  Leftovers from dinner in the fridge if you want them._

Sherlock scoffed.  He wasn't going to eat John's unwanted portion from his _date._  That was just absurd, and a little insulting.

It turned out to be duck, so Sherlock ate all of it, cold, standing in front of the fridge.

+++

The third date was the last straw.

"Are you going out with him _again_?" Sherlock demanded from the kitchen, as John tried to slip out unnoticed on a Saturday night, two weeks after the hit-and-run victim.

"Bugger off, Sherlock," John called back.

Sherlock darted to the doorway and caught John halfway down the stairs.  "You are.   _Why_?"

John sighed deeply (embarrassed) and leaned on the bannister (impatient).  "Because we get on."

"You and I get on."

"He makes me laugh."

"I make you laugh."

"We're going to a movie."

"I like movies," Sherlock protested.

"You aren't allowed in any theatre in a five-mile radius," John said.  "You run your mouth and you ruin the ending."

Sherlock scowled.  "The ending ruins itself.  If they weren't so formulaic—"

"Enough," John said.  "Why are you so hung up about David?  You never gave a toss about my girlfriends befo— oh my God, Sherlock."  He had started to grin, and Sherlock didn't like the look of it.  "You're jealous."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, going back into the kitchen.  His face was burning.  Had he ruined his experiment by leaving it alone?

John followed him and stood in the doorway, still wearing his jacket, his arms crossed across his chest.  "You are!" he said.  "You're jealous.  Look, Sherlock, it's just a couple of hours.  You haven't got anything on you can't spare me for.  I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow _morning_?"

"Yeah, well, we might— you know—"

"Have sex."

John shrugged.  "It's a possibility," he said.  He uncrossed his arms.  "If you need me, you can text me."

"Oh, _this_ time I can text?" Sherlock said.  "Thank you so much for the invitation."

"Don't be an arse, Sherlock," John said.  "I'll see you later."

He hadn't been gone fifteen minutes before Sherlock gave in and texted him.

_Urgent matter at 221B.  -SH_

John wrote back: _No, there isn't._

Sherlock scowled at his screen.

_How are you going to make the distinction if and when an emergency arises?  -SH_

John's answer came almost immediately: _If and when?_

Sherlock wrote, _I meant if._

 _Please don't burn the flat down,_ John wrote.   _Mrs H wouldn't like it._

Sherlock grinned.  He'd just have to keep John's attention at least marginally focused on him, perhaps one text every twenty-five minutes, and David Fanshaw would inevitably get tired of his interruptions.  They all did, sooner or later.  Fanshaw had proven himself to be unusually accommodating, though.  Maybe more like every eleven minutes.

Another text arrived while he was trying to calculate.  

_I'm not cleaning scorch marks off the ceiling again._

Sherlock upped the interval to seventeen minutes, to keep on John’s good side.

+++

John refused to respond.  They were in a movie, Sherlock reminded himself.  He didn't stop texting, though.  Persistence was key.  On on a normal day, John responded to an average of one third of his texts.  No reason to treat this like any other occasion.

At a quarter after nine, Sherlock did finally get a text back.

_Go solve a cold case or something._

Damn him.  Sherlock sat in the kitchen, fuming.  Ever since John had gone, Sherlock had been acutely aware of his absence.  The flat was entirely silent: no rustle of pages as John read the paper; no sub-audible hum of the telly as John watched a cooking show learning skills he'd never employ; no rumble of pipes as John took a shower; no whistle and click of the tea kettle.  There were no lights on upstairs, and the lights Sherlock had left on in the kitchen looked totally unnecessary with no one in there.  Outside, even the traffic in the street had slackened, leaving every wet pass of tyres to stand out like a sound effect on a movie set.  Hateful.

He didn't have any cold cases.  He didn't have any experiments he really felt like working on.  All he could think about was John, out with that man, watching a movie, laughing at his harmless, politically-correct jokes, holding hands with him, being caught off guard with a kiss, kissing back with a growing enthusiasm, allowing himself to be pushed down onto a bed and—

Sherlock sat up abruptly, the phone nearly crushed between his hands.  Jesus, John had been right.

He barely remembered to shut the door as he tore out of the flat, coat in hand, taking the stairs two at a time.

+++

John seemed to think that pizza was the appropriate accompaniment for a movie, whether seen at a theatre or otherwise.  It was, therefore, not difficult to track him down at the gourmet pizza parlour closest to the theatre closest to Fanshaw's apartment.  When Sherlock swept in, John didn't literally put his face in his hands, but he came very close.

"What," he said, when Sherlock came to a halt at table-side.

"Sherlock," Fanshaw said.  "We can make room, if you like."

"No," Sherlock said, not bothering to decide whether Fanshaw was being sarcastic or not.  They had mostly finished their pizza already.  "John, I need you immediately."

John put his napkin down and hesitated a moment before he said, "No."

Sherlock blinked.  "It's a matter of national security."

"Is it?"

"Wh— yes!"

"It's all right," Fanshaw said, looking between them uncomfortably.  "If you need to go, John, I don't mind."

"I—" John said, and hesitated again.

"Really."  Fanshaw reached across the table—dear God—and touched John's wrist.  "I was thinking of turning in early, actually; I've got to go visit my uncle tomorrow, and he's expecting me at ten."

"Oh," John said.  "You hadn't mentioned that."

"Well," Fanshaw said, shrugging one shoulder, "I didn't want to make a fuss, or anything."

"So it's settled," Sherlock said, eager to leave the restaurant and Fanshaw's presence.  He wasn't sure how he was going to have a proper conversation with John after this—his imposition was not quite as bad as the time he'd got John's date kidnapped by smugglers, but it seemed to be ranking up there—but he needed Fanshaw gone and John back at Baker Street.  He hadn't even thought up a proper excuse for when John demanded to know what the hurry was all about.

"We've still got to pay," John said.

Sherlock walked outside.  He’d paid for their dinner once; he wasn’t doing it again.

He had to endure John and David parting ways, though he stood as far away as possible without actually crossing the street.  When David leaned in and gave John a kiss on the cheek, Sherlock's vision actually went red.  Intolerable.  Then David was turning the corner down the street, and John was stalking in Sherlock's direction.

"All right," John said, his hands in his coat pockets, looking up at Sherlock, "where's the fire?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but when he gave the next cabbie that stopped their address, John's posture went rigid.

"I hope you have case files to show me at home," he said as they got in.

Sherlock took out his phone and began searching for weather reports.  That was something he usually did, when it came to investigating.

"I am going to murder you," John muttered.  "And I'm not even going to do it in your sleep."

Sherlock smiled into the collar of his coat.

+++

Sherlock paid when they arrived at their doorstep, mostly because John was out of the cab so fast Sherlock didn't stand a chance.  He followed in John's wake through the outer door and up the steps, giving Mrs Hudson's current state a moment's thought.  She went to bed late and got up late, so it was possible that she was still awake.  Sherlock wasn't sure whether that was better for the shouting match he was certain he and John were about to have, or worse.

John had hung up his coat by the time Sherlock entered the sitting room, and was standing in the middle of the carpet, ready to fight.  His hands were clenched into fists, steady as rocks, and his jumper was slightly uneven, rucked up a bit under his left armpit.  His face was like ice.

"All right," John said, "where's your bloody matter of national security?"

Sherlock said, "John, listen—"

"Oh, no, you listen," John said.  "This is ridiculous, Sherlock.  You can't keep interrupting my dates.  I can live with you and work with you and still have a personal life, all right?  I don't have to get your permission for everything."

"Why'd you come, then?" Sherlock said, hanging up his coat.  "If you knew it was a sham, why'd you come?"

"David said he didn't mind—"

"He was _lying_ ," Sherlock said.  "He wanted to take you home tonight and give you the shag of your life."

"Oh, excellent, now I've missed that why, exactly?  Need me to fetch you a pen?  Make you a cuppa?"

"I need you here, you're important to my work."

"You haven't been doing any work, Sherlock; you've been obsessing over this whole thing instead."

"It's interrupting my work!"

"You've had a problem with David since the beginning!" John cried.  "Is it because he was one of your clients?"

"Technically he wasn't a client," Sherlock said, "he was the victim."

"Piss off, you know what I mean.  He's related to a case, is that it?"

"That's not it," Sherlock said.

"Is it because he's a man?" John demanded.  "I knew you were a prat, Sherlock, but I never thought you were a bigot."

Sherlock sneered.  "You don't think that now," he said.

"No, but I do think that's the reason you're so dead set against him.  You're threatened by him."

Gritting his teeth against the obvious denial, Sherlock said nothing.  Instead, he closed his eyes in a show of dismay at John's stupidity and stalked out of the room.

John came after him, as Sherlock knew he would.

"Don't walk away from me," John said.

Sherlock turned around.  "You're not gay," he said.  "You go out of your way to tell people that, and I could never figure out why, exactly."

"I'm _not_ ," John said, pointing a finger at him.  "I'm bisexual, and don't even try telling me that's not a real thing, because I can assure you with great confidence that it is, and I am."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Of course it's a real thing.  Who said it wasn't a real thing?"

"Sherlock, why do you care so much?"

"You said it yourself, John!" Sherlock cried, throwing up his hands.  "I'm jealous!"

John opened his mouth and closed it again.  Then he said, "Really?"  He'd lost all the steam he'd built up for being really angry, and now he was staring at Sherlock in surprise.  "Which, ah—which parts are you jealous of, exactly?"

Sherlock was cornered up against the sink.  He leaned back, resting his hands on the edge, and crossed one ankle over the other.  "I don't know."

"God, you're a piece of work, Sherlock," John said.

"Well spotted," Sherlock said, his face a calculated mask of giving-no-fucks.  His heart was going double-time in his chest, alarming in its intensity.  He felt a little light-headed.

John stepped closer, inserting himself into Sherlock's personal space, just like he'd inserted himself into every other part of Sherlock's life.  Sherlock could smell him now: laundry liquid and aftershave and London fog, all underneath the aroma of tomato sauce.  John was trying his level best to look into Sherlock's face, but Sherlock kept his eyes and chin down, making it as difficult as possible.  Then John put his hand in the middle of Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock looked up.

John's eyes were as blue as Sherlock had ever seen them— he briefly considered making a study of the colour of John's eyes in different lights and under various emotional states— and John's mouth was soft, hinting at a smile held in check.

"Are you interested in David?" John asked.  "Is that what's bothering you?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, John," Sherlock huffed.  "I've never been so disappointed with you in my life."

John grinned.  "So you're jealous _of_ David."

Damn him.  That was a well-laid trap, actually.  Nothing like appealing to Sherlock's scorn for the intellect of others to get him to reveal something.  Sherlock was a little proud of him after all.

"You keep saying how I'm not gay, but what you mean is you didn't know I dated men," John said.  "So now, presented with this new data, as it were, you've altered your behaviour."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have.  You usually just forget who I've gone out with," John said.  "And now you're actually, genuinely jealous.  No, shut up, I'm deducing."

Sherlock shut his mouth.  He could feel the blush coming on, and there was nothing he could do about it.  John studied him intently for what felt like forever, but couldn't have been more than thirty seconds.  Then John nodded once and said, "Hmm," thoughtfully.

Despite himself, Sherlock said, "What."

"Just, something someone said once."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, annoyed and intrigued all at once.  This was not the turn of events he had anticipated, not in the slightest.  John was standing so close he was straddling Sherlock's feet, and their faces were only a few inches apart.

"When you eliminate the impossible," John began, and Sherlock resisted the urge to groan in consternation, "whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"Sounds like a bit of a tosser, to be honest," Sherlock said.

John broke out into a grin, and then he closed the distance.  His lips against Sherlock's were soft and careful, testing the waters; again, not what Sherlock had expected.  For a beat, neither of them moved.  John's exhale against Sherlock's philtrum was almost imperceptible, but it kicked Sherlock into motion.  His hands came up to grip John's biceps, holding John against him, and kissed John again.  John responded, tipping his head and opening his mouth, and he tasted like pizza.

Sherlock pushed off the sink and spun them around to pin John there instead.  John jolted and moaned, his flattened hands between them curling into fists with Sherlock's shirt in his grip.  Sherlock jammed a thigh between John's legs and kissed him hungrily, taking advantage of John's parted lips to try and lick the backs of every one of his teeth.  John parted his legs and pulled Sherlock closer in response.  His face was smooth, freshly shaven for his date; Sherlock skidded his hands up John's arms to cradle his jaw and move his head where he wanted it.

John laughed into the kiss and bit Sherlock's lower lip in retaliation, but he didn't push Sherlock away or protest to the obviously possessive treatment.  Sherlock heard himself moaning into John's mouth.  John began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt and yank it out of the waist of his trousers, and then his hands were on Sherlock’s bare skin.

“Do you know how bloody irritating it is that you never wear a vest?” John asked, but he was mapping Sherlock’s chest and ribs with unchecked enthusiasm.  He brushed a thumb over Sherlock’s nipple, so casually it might have been an accident, but it sent a jolt of sensation through Sherlock that ended right between his legs.

Sherlock pulled away from the kiss to put his mouth to good use along John's neck, and John tipped his head back against the cabinet in welcome.  He shivered delightfully as Sherlock scraped his teeth over his pulse, and made a little cut-off whimpering noise when Sherlock sucked hard and fast on his skin.

“Bedroom,” John said.  “Apparently I was in for the shag of my life tonight, and I’m not having it in this kitchen.”

“It’s perfectly sanitary,” Sherlock protested, but John was shoving him away from the sink and taking a proprietary hold of the waist of his trousers, his fingers tucked inside against Sherlock’s pants.  Sherlock was more or less dragged into his own bedroom, and he barely had the wherewithal to shut the door behind them.

When John let go, Sherlock did what he’d imagined David doing and pushed John down onto the bed.  John leaned back on his hands and Sherlock climbed into his lap to kiss him.  John sucked hard on his tongue and bit at his mouth, one hand coming up to cradle the side of Sherlock’s face.  His fingers were in Sherlock’s hair, scuffing gently against his scalp.  Sherlock leaned into the pressure and John took the hint.  He started combing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, giving the handfuls of hair a squeeze that made Sherlock groan.  Sherlock’s cock was swelling against the taut fabric of his trousers, and he could feel John’s erection prodding the underside of his thigh.

Sherlock broke the kiss and slid off John’s lap to kneel at his feet and began to divest him of his clothes.

"Married to your work," John panted, grasping at Sherlock's shoulder.  He insinuated his hand under the gaping collar of Sherlock’s shirt, his palm warm against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock unzipped John's jeans.  "Beg pardon?"

"That's what you said," John said, wriggling out of his jeans as Sherlock pulled them down.  "That first night, at Angelo's."

Sherlock remembered it: John's fumbling inquiry, his own evasion.  He hadn't known.  He hadn't _known_ , at the time, what John was going to come to mean.  How could he have?  He was a detective, not a fortune teller.

"I took your word for it," John was saying, as Sherlock pushed his jumper and shirt together over his head and began exploring John’s bare chest with his mouth.  The shiny, puckered skin of the scar on his shoulder felt strange and wonderful under Sherlock's tongue.  "I thought you weren't— you know—"

"I wasn't," Sherlock said, "at the time."  He shook off his own shirt onto the floor and shed his trousers.  His socks went the same way, into the corner, one at a time.  Then, down to his soft cotton pants that did nothing to contain the jut of his prick, he clambered once more astride John’s lap.

"Bloody hell," John muttered, and his arms went around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock kissed him again, taking advantage of John's distraction to slip his tongue into John's mouth.  John moaned and tightened his arms, crushing Sherlock to him.  His hands spanned Sherlock's back, cradling him from shoulder blades to sacrum.  John’s cock rubbed deliciously against Sherlock’s, still separated by two layers of fabric.  Sherlock could feel the heat of it, the stiff weight, and it made his hips jerk.

John muttered something into his mouth.  His hands found Sherlock’s hips at the bend of his thighs and he dug his thumbs into the joint.  His hands were smaller than Sherlock’s, but bloody hell they were strong, and John had no trouble dragging Sherlock into a slow, dirty grind.  Sherlock had to pull away to catch his breath, and he bit his lip and stared down at John’s pleasure-creased face.

Then John opened his eyes, and the naked desire in them made Sherlock’s heart pound.  John’s tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.  Sherlock pressed their mouths together, licking John's open wide, exploring him.  John's saliva was in his mouth, slick on his tongue; he swallowed, and had John's fluids inside him.  Sherlock's cock jumped, pushing out another sticky drop of pre-come.  The fabric of his pants was rough on his oversensitive skin.

John must have had the same thought, because his hand found its way between them and pulled at Sherlock's waistband.  Sherlock's cock stood out straight as the pressure on it was eased, and then John's knuckles were brushing against its wet head, its rigid length.  Sherlock groaned, flexing his hips in an attempt to get more contact.

"Get off," John said into his mouth, and again as he pulled back in surprise, "get off, Sherlock."

Sherlock got off, his stomach plummeting.  A moment later, John seized the waist of his pants and yanked them down to his knees.  Sherlock's cock was jerked awkwardly and he winced, but then John had it in his hand and halfway down his throat.

"Fuck!" Sherlock cried, his hands flying to John's head.  John's hair was silky soft, the strands slipping through his fingers as he clutched helplessly at them.  John's nose pressed firmly against his abdomen, then retreated as John let Sherlock's prick slide slowly from his warm, wet mouth.

"All right?" John asked, and he winked.  Cheeky bastard.  Sherlock kicked his pants off and pushed John back down onto the bed until his shoulders hit the mattress and he was laughing.  John shucked his own pants as Sherlock climbed onto his lap and narrowly avoided a knee to the groin, and then he was moaning deeply as Sherlock settled astride his thighs.

John's cock was thick and flushed, its round head peeking out of his foreskin, a thread of pre-ejaculate spooling out from its tip.  Sherlock's, wet from John's mouth and iron hard, slid smoothly against it.  The tickle of John's pubic hair on the underside of Sherlock's balls made Sherlock shiver and rock down, and John's hands found their place on his hips again.

There was lube in Sherlock's night table on the far side of the bed, but he couldn't reach it from where he was.  Separating himself from John was unthinkable.  They'd have to make do.  He worked a hand between them.  John made a shocked noise that turned quickly into a moan of appreciation as Sherlock gripped their cocks together.

"Open your eyes," Sherlock said, leaning on his other hand and staring down at John's face.  John obeyed, his eyelashes fluttering, gold in the light coming in from the hall.  The flush under his skin wasn’t limited to his cheeks; the tips of his ears were blooming red too, and the tender hollow of his throat.  As Sherlock watched, John's pupils dilated a little further and his smile widened.

“Christ,” John said.  “You watching me, it’s--”

Sherlock pitched his voice low, anticipating the reaction, the flicker of John’s tongue.  “It’s what, John?”

“It’s fantastic,” John breathed.  His palms skimmed up Sherlock’s sides to rest on his ribs, then one smoothed down Sherlock’s back while the other came up to cradle Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock felt himself turning into the touch.  He kept his eyes on John’s face, though, watching the play of sensation in the twitch of his muscles.   John’s mouth was open, his breathing ragged.  His forehead creased minutely with every thrust of Sherlock’s hips.  John’s prick was slick with their combined pre-come, the sweat of their bodies, and it slid easily through the circle of Sherlock’s fist.

Sherlock’s body was tensing before he was ready, heat and pressure building between his thighs and in the root of his cock.  He bit his lip to keep himself in check, but his transport was protesting its long period of being systematically ignored, and was about to betray him.  His balls were drawing up, the muscles in his legs and arse tightening.  John was clutching at him, his fingers sliding on Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock would have sworn up and down that he could feel every whorl of John’s fingerprints on his back.

“I’m gonna come,” John said suddenly, his grip on the back of Sherlock’s neck tightening.  “Jesus, Sherlock--”

“Do it,” Sherlock ground out, “do it, let me see.”

“Fuck,” John said, “fuck, oh, fuck!”  His back arched sharply, almost throwing Sherlock off him, and then he was shuddering as he came, spurting hot and sticky through Sherlock’s fingers.  His cock swelled and jerked, and the sharp smell of his ejaculate made the muscles in Sherlock's pelvis clench.  His moan of satisfaction was loud within the confines of Sherlock's bedroom walls.

Sherlock rutted against him, desperate and too hot in his skin, panting after his release.  John was gasping, "Yeah, fuck yeah, that's it," in his ear, and then John pinched Sherlock's right nipple, hard.  The sympathetic nerve response went right through him, and he came, groaning, all over John's belly.

John cradled him with his knees as they breathed heavily against each other's shoulders.  Sherlock slipped his sticky hand out from between them and supported himself on the bed, while John ran his fingers again and again through Sherlock's hair.

"Well," John said eventually, tipping Sherlock off him onto the mattress.  

Sherlock rolled onto his back and regarded the mess on his stomach.  He dragged his fingers through it and tasted it.  It was bitter and getting cold, and not as appealing as it had been ten seconds ago when his system was flooded with adrenaline.

The oxytocin that was running through him now, though, made him reach for John again and gather him close.  John chuckled softly and rolled so that his head was on Sherlock's shoulder and his arm lay across Sherlock's lower ribs.

"I didn't think you'd—" John began, and then made a little distressed noise in his nose.  "That is, I didn't figure you were interested in anyone, honestly."

Sherlock sighed.  "You'll go after anything in a skirt," he countered.  "I never thought you'd look twice at me."

"We're idiots," John mumbled.

"You're an idiot."

"You're an arsehole."

Sherlock grinned.  "Yeah," he said.

"Never look twice—? Jesus, Sherlock, I'd have to be blind, not just straight."

They separated to clean the spunk off their skin and get under Sherlock's duvet.  John tucked himself once more against Sherlock's side.  Sherlock thought he could do with a cigarette now.  He wasn't dying for a smoke (a Nicotine patch might suffice) but it was the ritual that he missed.  He settled for running his fingers up and down John's spine and trying to count his vertebrae instead.

“Lose Fanshaw’s number,” he said eventually, when John’s breathing had evened out and the doctor was on the verge of falling asleep.

John huffed against Sherlock’s skin.  “Yeah, I think it’s probably a bit inappropriate to try to keep seeing someone after you’ve gone and shagged your flatmate.”

“I’m serious.”

John lifted his head.  His smile was a little uneven, his eyes narrowed against the light from the bedside lamp.  “But what if--?”

His hesitation made Sherlock frown.  “What if what?  What if _what_ , John?”

“No, nothing,” John said, putting his head back down.

He’d been trying to make a joke, Sherlock thought.  But it had failed when he’d realised how Sherlock would take it.  Or it had failed when John had realised the implications of it.  John didn’t exactly shy away from offensive, especially not when it was just the two of them.  But he never insulted Sherlock, not with any real feeling (“bloody git,” “madman,” and “fucking wanker” notwithstanding), so perhaps that was what he’d thought better of.  His respiration was elevated again, a little forced, so Sherlock pushed at his shoulder until John lifted his head again.

“ _What_?  Can’t a man sleep?”

“What if what?” Sherlock demanded.  “Under what circumstances could you _possibly_ need to contact Fanshaw again?”

“None that haven’t got to do with polite decency,” John said firmly, clearly making a decision.  “I’ll tell him it’s not working out, and then I’ll delete it.”

“That’s not what you were going to say.”

“Jesus, Sherlock."  John pushed himself up onto his elbows.  His expression was one of obvious internal conflict, and then he said, "Fuck it.  What if you get bored?"

"Bored of what?"  Sherlock's stomach turned over.  "Bored of _you_?"

John shrugged.  His shoulders were already almost at his ears, and the starburst puncture of his healed wound was contorted to make it look even more dramatic than usual.  His mouth was a tight, unhappy line; his eyes were fixed on the faint puncture scars visible above Sherlock's elbow.

"John," Sherlock said, willing John with everything he had to look at him instead of the evidence of a past life, "how can you not know?  This is why you're an idiot."

"Cheers, thanks."

"You are _fascinating_.  Every time I think I've got you figured out, there's something else that I don't know.  Case in point.  You are..."  He searched for words that would make John understand.  “The most splendid puzzle I’ve ever come across.”

The corner of John's mouth quirked up, and he met Sherlock's eyes.  Sherlock touched his cheekbone—he'd picked the clean hand, well done, John would be so irritated otherwise—and leaned up to kiss John's half-hearted smile.

"I can’t possibly get bored," Sherlock murmured.  "Remember what you said about the impossible?  Eliminate it."

John's smile widened into a genuine grin.  It crinkled the corners of his eyes and the very centre of his forehead.  His hair was sticking up in the back, and Sherlock smoothed it down with the tips of his fingers.

"And Fanshaw's number," Sherlock said, as John put his head back down on Sherlock's shoulder.  "Eliminate that too."


End file.
